Nesta's drabbles
by Nesta
Summary: An occasional series of short pieces with a Faramir connection.
1. Chapter 1

The mighty gift

I see,' said the King, 'that you have not squandered what Fortune gave.'

'I hope I have not,' said the Steward.

'I see,' said the King, 'that you have brought me a mighty gift.'

'I think I have,' said the Steward.

'Your mission to Harad has been remarkably successful,' said the King.

'I hope it has,' said the Steward, instinctively feeling his neck to assure himself that his head was still on his shoulders.'

'For a thousand years Harad and Gondor have exchanged nothing but spears and arrows, and now you return from Harad bringing gifts. That is good,' said the King.

'I think, on the whole, it is good,' said the Steward cautiously.

'And what,' asked the King grimly, 'do you expect me to do with it?'

'It is not for me,' said the Steward, 'to tell the King what to do with a gift from a fellow monarch.'

'I commend your humility,' said the King.

'I am the King's servant,' said the Steward.

'And the King will reward his servant,' said the King. 'I hereby bestow this gift on you. Do with it what you will.'

The Steward blenched.

The enormous mûmak stamped its front offside foot, making the earth shake perceptibly, and its tongue snaked out towards the two men. The King took a step backward. The Steward, who had had a good deal of recent experience with the beast, hastily gave it at a banana.


	2. Chapter 2

Worth a song?

The hour was late. The feast in the great hall of Menegroth had been rich, abundant, varied and prolonged, the wine excellent, the minstrelsy of the highest standard, and the Steward of Gondor was in a mellow mood. Not so his wife.

'What's the matter?' asked the Steward.

She confronted him with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. Even her golden hair seemed to be throwing off sparks.

'By all the Valar, but she's beautiful when she's angry,' thought the Steward, but decided that the thought was neither original nor, at the present moment, tactful, so did not speak it aloud.

'You ask me what's the matter? Didn't you hear the singing?'

'I thought it splendid; why did it displease you?'

'Isn't it obvious? They sang songs in praise of every hero I ever heard of, in Rohan, Gondor or the North; they sang songs in praise of every person there and all their ancestors back for a thousand years; they sang in praise of everybody, except…'

'Well?'

'Except you!'

'Does it matter? Let the praiseworthy be praised, say I. The more so if it makes them happy to hear it.'

'It's an insult! It touches your honour!'

'My dear,' he said placidly, 'I never thought my honour depended on flattery from a gaggle of minstrels. Of course, if you think it touches _your_ honour as my wife, I vow I'll sit down this very night and write a dozen songs in praiseof myself, although' – he yawned prodigiously – 'I confess I would much rather go to bed.'

'You are impossible!' she raged. 'Does not every man of honour seek glory and renown? How can they gain it if no songs are sung of them? How else are men to be inspired to great deeds?'

Faramir roused himself and dropped his bantering tone.

'Éowyn,' he said, 'or should I call you Dernhelm: when you stood alone on the field of battle, not so long ago, and defied and defeated one whom few men would even dare to look upon, was it because you were seeking glory and renown? Or was there another reason?'

She was silent.


	3. Chapter 3

Though Gondor should perish

A glimpse of Faramir as a boy

…_for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, through Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come._ (Gandalf in _The Return of the King_)

The boy lay on his stomach in the grass, close to the cliff edge, the first whisper of the evening breeze pleasantly cool against his back. The whole valley was offering itself to him in the clear westering light, but his attention was fixed on something closer to hand.

The harebell was growing all by itself. It was so incredibly blue that it seemed to have taken all the blueness in the world into itself, so that when he looked up it seemed strange to find that the sky had not lost its colour. The flower seemed to be hovering unsupported above the sheep-nibbled grass, but with a little probing his fingers found the fine stem. He held it, trapped, between two fingers.

He could feel the strength of his own hand. A hand that could wield a pen, or pluck a harp-string. A hand that could hold a sword, or draw a bow. The power to make, and the power to unmake. The power to kill. The power to snap a flower-stem…

The boy thought: I can unmake it, but I cannot make it. If it is unmade, it will never be made again.

_He _can unmake, but never make. He wants to unmake everything in the world and fill it with Himself, which is nothing.

There is having power, and there is the using of it. It is easier to use it than not to use it.

Not using it can be weakness, or it can be mercy. _He _knows no mercy.

The boy withdrew his hand, and the flower danced again over the sheep-nibbled grass.


	4. Chapter 4

Hard words

_For incurable romantics only. _

1

'…and there goes a happy man,' said the Warden with great satisfaction.

'You have some fondness for him, I think?' suggested Éowyn.

'A very great fondness, if you want to put it that way. I've known him all his life – indeed longer, for I tended his mother before he was born – and a better lad never stepped, nor a better man.'

'He is much loved in this city, I think?'

''You'll find few to gainsay that, my Lady,' said the Warden. He looked at her, the unfailing kindness in his old eyes tempered by something close to anxiety. 'And what say you, my lady? Do you love him?'

'Need you ask?' she replied a little haughtily. 'I am his betrothed wife, after all.'

'If you do love him, have you told him so?'

'He knows it without my telling him.'

' I dare say he does,' said the Warden, smiling, 'but tell him so all the same.'

2

'… and as for horses, I think it best I should consult with your brother.'

'Mmm.'

'There is good pasture, down by the Great River; it may be hotter there in high summer than in Rohan, but nothing to distress them.'

'Mmm.'

'And we might keep a few dragons in the hills; you never know when they might come in useful.'

'Mmm.'

'Éowyn, are you listening to a word I am saying?'

'I'm sorry … I was thinking … Faramir, there is something I must say to you.'

'Well?'

'It is difficult.'

'Well?'

'I… I love you.'

'Indeed? So you've come out with it at last. Was it really so difficult? Perhaps if you tried again it would be easier.'

'I love you.'

'Better. Try again.'

'I love you.'

'Do you know, with a little more practice you might learn to say it quite well?'


	5. Chapter 5

Question and answer

_A contender for the title of world's shortest romantic LoTR fanfic._

You ask why I love him? It would take too long to answer.

Perhaps it comes down to this: when you have stood hand in hand with a man and seen the world come to an end and be re-created before your eyes, you won't part with him lightly thereafter.


	6. Chapter 6

Self-defence

The Healer tut-tutted over the broken tooth and applied soothing ointment to the black eye.

'Ioreth used a beefsteak on mine,' said Boromir helpfully.

'Waste of beefsteak,' said the Healer, who was an economical man.

Boromir turned to his small brother. 'Why didn't you call for me if they were bullying you?' he demanded.

'I thought I could manage by myself. And I did too,' said the small brother, defiantly. 'What would you have done, anyway?'

'I'd have stood them both on their heads.'

'I never thought of that,' admitted Faramir. 'But I knocked the front teeth out of one and gave the other a black eye, and I think they got the message clearly enough.'


	7. Chapter 7

Property

'Of course it is possible to love two men at the same time, though not in the same way,' said the Lady of Rohan.

'Of course,' said the Queen of Gondor.

'And it can take a little time before one fully understands one's own heart,' said the Lady of Rohan.

'So it can,' said the Queen.

'With charity and goodwill it is possible for two women to love one man and no bitterness to come of it,' said the Lady of Rohan.

'So I think,' said the Queen.

The Lady's voice was sweet as honey, but her eyes were as sharp as swords.

'Just so long as we both admit,' she said, 'that the Steward of Gondor is _my _man and nobody else is to dispute that claim.'

'I wouldn't dream of disputing it,' said the Queen.


	8. Chapter 8

Generation to generation

The Steward's son paced up and down the great hall. A hundred kings looked on him with eyes of stone, but the Steward's son did not see them. He cared nothing for kings.

The great hall was empty, but little ripples of fear and apprehension from it through the house. The Steward's son could be terrible in his anger.

A single word ran through his brain: _unfair_, _unfair._ He saw his father strolling in the garden, arm in arm with the man so like the Steward's son himself, in face and in pride. He saw the affectionate smile, heard the shared laughter. The man whom his father delighted to honour, who had stolen his father's love.

The man whose name was on every lip; the theme of every song. The man who could draw others after himself, to follow him into the heart of blackest danger, and come out again with brightest glory, unharmed and smiling, as if no weapon would bite on him.

The Steward's son pounded one fist into the other hand in passionate frustration. To be always second; to have your courage and skill disesteemed, your opinions ignored, your counsel passed over. It was not to be borne.

Such injustice should never be visited on anyone. Least of all, on a Steward's son.


	9. Chapter 9

Echoes

'Sing the sea-song, mother.'

My little son looks at me with his sea-grey eyes. He is a frail child, his face so thin that his eyes look huge in it. Frog-eyes, his brother calls him, and certainly he has nothing of his brother's easy beauty. You have to look closely to see the promise of the fine-cut features and firm jaw.

'Not today, my darling, I'm too tired.'

The huge eyes darken with anxiety.

'I wish you weren't always tired, mother, it isn't right.'

'Don't worry, little one, I'll be better tomorrow.'

He is plainly unconvinced. He sees too much, knows too much, worries too much. He cannot rest on facile assurances. He will have the truth though it stab him. Without me, who will console him when he meets with truths that are too hard to bear?

'I'll sing the sea-song if you like.'

That's his elder brother, casually kind, supremely confident of his own ability to do anything and everything.

Faramir sits up and regards him with a mixture of doubt and hope.

'Can you?'

'Of course I can.'

Boromir has a voice like a young crow's. There is no music in him. The music in my blood, the distant echoes of elven-song that beat in my blood, the remembered sounds of the sea that recede from my longing ears at each awakening in this stony city, all that has passed him by. It is the little one who has the music in him.

But Boromir sings, and the little one claps his hands in admiration.

Then the huge eyes turn to me. Not seeking reassurance but offering it.

'Boromir will sing the song to me when you're too tired, mother. Don't worry.'

And my heavy heart lightens at his words.


	10. Chapter 10

_Warning: mildly romantic content_

The scent of memory

It is a sharp, clean, astringent scent, elusively familiar.

'What's that scent on your hair?'

'Oil of Rosemary,' replies Eowyn drowsily. 'The ladies of Gondor use it to make their hair shine. Surely you knew that?'

'You know very well,' he murmurs, his lips against her ear, 'that I knew nothing about the ways of ladies of Gondor, or any other ladies, until I met you.'

'So you say, my Lord' she teases, and then, at his fervent but inarticulate protest, adds hastily and honestly , 'and I believe you.'

And it's true. So why does the smell of rosemary tug so at the roots of his memory?

…A tall woman, her hair soft as silk and dark as night, a small child in her arms. She holds him close and he nuzzles her neck, smelling the faint, clean scent of her hair. She laughs and crooks a finger under his chin so that he looks up at her, and now he sees her clearly again at last, the pale, lovely face with the delicate black brows over sea-grey eyes that mirror his own.

Eowyn is asleep, the golden head with its scent of rosemary quiet against his shoulder.

I would give her the world if I could, he thinks. How should I not,when she has given a world back to me?

_Please note: Nesta is moving over to the Stories of Arda site. Hope to meet you there, and as always, thanks for reading!_


	11. Chapter 11

They were goodly men, tall and strong, and with an air of high nobility. None was in his first youth. Paler strands showed in their dark hair, and there were creases around the keen grey eyes, and lines etched in the pale faces.

Their garments were rich, with here and there the dull gleam of gold, or the sharper sparkle of white gems. All had long swords at their sides.

One wore a crown, and the others deferred to him, but stiffly and reluctantly.

They listened to one in their midst: a handsome man, taller even than they, fair of face, with a pleasant smile and a beguiling voice, and behind the voice, an authority which they recognised.

He spoke to them courteously, flatteringly. He seemed to see into each man's heart, reading his deepest desires.

He offered them power beyond the dreams of Men or Elves, and smiled to see the hunger awakened in their eyes. Above all, he offered them life, endless life unchanging.

They bargained with him. The debate lasted for many hours, but at the end of it, their proud heads bowed in acceptance.

Nine hands stretched out, and into each the stranger put a golden ring.


	12. Chapter 12

'Happy birthday,' said Arwen.

'May I open it now?' said Estel.

'You may, but be careful,' said Arwen. 'I wrapped it in secret, and long was the wrapping. And exceedingly difficult.'

Excitedly, Estel tore off the wrapping paper, all decorated with elvish stars and elegant silver squiggles against a black background. As he tore off the last strips, the horse gave a snort of relief and waggled its ears. Its mane and tail had been elegantly plaited and its hoofs polished until you could see your face in them.

'Do you like him?' asked Arwen shyly. 'He's my own particular favourite. His name's Roheryn.'

'What could be more perfect?' said Estel ecstatically. 'But how can you bear to part with him? What will you do without a horse?'

'Oh,' said Arwen airily, 'I'll just borrow Glorfindel's.'

_Author's note: Roheryn is of course Aragorn's horse in RoTK. The name means 'the lady's horse'. Thanks to the learned folk in Emyn Arnen for putting me right on this!_


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